


Tales of Evelyn Trevelyan: Varric and Liam

by insideofadog



Series: Dragon Age Nonsense [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Gen, Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:33:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideofadog/pseuds/insideofadog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this a while ago and it didn't fit anywhere. My computer's finally working, so here's something to tide you over until I transcribe and edit my current, HANDWRITTEN chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of Evelyn Trevelyan: Varric and Liam

_From the personal story notes of Varric Tethras, tentatively titled "Untold Tales of Varric Tethras, Teller of Tales"_

One thing the general public probably doesn’t know about me is that I am capable of curating a truly masterful hangover. I’ve considered producing a pamphlet on the subject, but it's a bit outside my general range--generally I'm into sharing other people's secrets, not my own. Also, it’s the sort of knowledge that might cause the downfall of society as we know it, and since I’ve already skirted around being responsible for _that_ a time or two, better safe than sorry.

The Varric Tethras hangover requires the right combination of food (greasy), and booze (cheap), and, most important of all, a finely honed sense of timing (an attribute already present in the greatest storytellers but sadly lacking in most other people). Done correctly, one awakens with a sense of accomplishment, only a mild headache (easily extinguished by a mug of ale), and at least one new story to tell.

Sadly, despite the fact that I was evidently still Varric Tethras when I regained consciousness, this was not a true Varric Tethras hangover. I awoke with a general feeling of malaise, a pounding headache, and several stories which I had absolutely no desire to share with anyone, ever.

I extracted myself from the pile of fur in which I found myself, crawled onto the lizard thing I’d been riding recently, and made my way back to the Inquisition camp by midday. I’ll say this for the dracolisk: it has a hateful disposition, but its gait is smoother than any pony I’ve ever been on, and it’s smart enough to know not to bite me when it really matters. Sure, it might have tried to take a chunk out of me earlier that week when some Avvar was swinging an axe at my head, but in _truly_ dire circumstances, when I am in at risk of vomiting anywhere at the slightest provocation—that is where the dracolisk apparently excels. An exceptional mount for the discerning drunkard.

I put the thing in the paddock with the other things—thank the Maker that Master Dennett’s trained the lizards to stop trying to eat the rabbit-deer—and leaned against the fence. I propped a foot up on one of the rails and stared off into the distance, in the hopes that any passers-by would assume I was absorbed in manly contemplation and would leave me alone and not speak to me in their horrible, loud voices.

My plan was going well until Ser Liam spotted me. Just like any other predator, the bastard is possessed with a keen ability to smell out the weak and the sick. He circled cautiously and then, convinced of my inability to flee, sauntered in for the kill.

“Dwarf.” His moustache twitched obnoxiously, like a smug, plump, evil caterpillar contemplating a tender leaf. “Hangover?”

“’Hungover dwarf?’” I swallowed casually, as if my throbbing skull were not about to crack open at any moment. I pictured lava oozing through the fissures. “In my business, that’s what we call an oxymoron.”

“Funny,” he mused. “In _my_ business, the word we use is just ‘moron.’”

“Business must be booming in your line of work these days," I shot back. "Lack of competition and all that. Speaking of which, I think I saw a mage being wrong on the way in. You should probably find them and tell them you told them so.”

Not my best work, but respectable under the circumstances.

He scratched at his stubble. “Maybe. Pay’s shite, though. Look, now that we got that out of the way, I wanna talk to you about something. Sit someplace quiet, maybe have a drink.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, my interest piqued. Years of studying the arcane had apparently taught him the magic words every recovering drunk wants to hear: ‘silence’ and ‘booze.’ “You want something from me, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. "Yep."

“All right,” I nodded, “but only”—I held up my hand—“only if you agree not to yell.”

“I don’t yell,” he complained.

“We both know it’s a cornerstone of your communication style,” I pointed out, “but let me put it to you another way: you yell, I puke. On your boots.”

He shrugged.

I looked down at his worn footwear, and began to question the efficacy of my threat.

“I think I ate some dried fish last night,” I assured him. “Tends to soak in. Oily.”

“Fine, fine, come on,” he grumbled. “Follow me.”

So I staggered after him into an empty cabin. One with a bed. The bed was also empty. I have to admit that I had already kicked one boot off and was reaching for the other when I realized that I was sitting in the Inquisitor's quarters.

“This is the Inquisitor’s cabin,” I burped to Liam.

“She’s not using it,” he shrugged.

I fell back on the bed and groaned. “Mages have personal space now, Knight-Captain.”

“Mmm,” he mused. “Guess you’re right. You think we gotta leave?”

“No,” I told the ceiling, “but if she shows up, this was all your idea, and I was only a hapless victim. A hapless victim to whom, if I recall correctly, you promised a drink, so why don’t you get on that before she gets back?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and shuffled off for a few minutes.

While he was gone, I lay back on the bed. My stomach growled and burned and muttered incomprehensible curses, as if I’d mistakenly imbibed a rage demon. It reminded me of the time Isabella made me do some kind of flaming shot, and didn’t tell me until afterwards that I should blow the fire out first. Tasted like burning hair and regret, but that might have just been me. Either way, it _was_ better than some of the other swill she tried to get me to drink over the years.

Liam came back with a mug of ale, some kind of sausage thing, and a waterskin. I tossed the water on the floor where it belonged, gave the sausage a suspicious look and placed it to the side, and drank half the beer in one gulp. I released an enormous belch and felt significantly better.

“All right,” I nodded, reclining back against a pillow. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He leaned back in a chair by the door and crossed one crusty boot over another.

“Of all the lunatics who run with Trevelyan, you’re the only one I think can help with this,” he began. “You got connections. Plus, you don’t have some kinda hidden agenda, you’re not crazy, and you’re not a liar.”

“You obviously haven’t been talking to Cassandra,” I interjected.

He shrugged, waved a hand. “You’re just full of shit, not a liar. She can’t see the difference between you and a man who lies about murdering children, that’s her problem.”

“That’s…an interesting way of putting it,” I observed. “Why not ask Cullen? Doesn’t he owe you Templar loyalty or something?”

“Well…” Liam wiggled his toes around inside his crusty boots. I prayed to the Maker that he wasn’t thinking of removing them. “Still in a snit with me about something I did, and I’m not apologizing because I wasn’t wrong, so there you are. Besides, he couldn’t find his own arse in a snowstorm.”

“First off, I’m not even sure what that statement means. Second, I have seen Cullen _literally_ find someone lost in a snowstorm before, so I’m willing to bet he could find a piece of his own body under similar circumstances. Third, if it’s Cullen’s ass you’re looking for—“

“Blast it, dwarf, I’m not looking for asses,” he snapped. “Though I guess you got confused ‘cause I _did_ come looking for _you_.”

I finished my beer and lay back against a pillow. My head was starting to clear, and my mood had improved considerably.

“You know,” I mused, “I’m having a wonderful time. Are you having a wonderful time? I really can’t think of why we don’t do this more often.”

“Because I hate you,” he shot back. “Now are you going to help me or not?”

“Oh, well, when you put it like _that_ , how could I not?” I chuckled. “I’ll at least hear you out. What do you have that requires my particular talents, then?”

He pulled a crumpled, folded piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to me. It looked like he’d been carrying it around for a while, since the ink was smudged in spots with what I hoped was rain and not gross Templar sweat.

I unfolded it and skimmed the contents. “It’s a list of names,” I observed.

“I know that,” he snapped.

I put the letter down on my lap and looked him in the eye. “Liam.”

“What?” he grumbled.

“Liam.” I repeated. I raised an eyebrow. I didn't have to play his games if I didn't want to, and he knew it.

“Oh fine,” he sighed. “It’s a list of the Knight-Enchanters who were in attendance on the Divine at the Conclave. The Inquisitor got it for me. Not that I asked her to. She just…goes and does things like that sometimes. Stubborn woman.”

I just kept looking at him. Didn’t say anything. He started to squirm. Some days, I’m perfectly happy to pry the information out of people, but the flat-stare-and-wait technique also has its own charms.

“There’s a name not on that list,” he eventually blurted. “Marie Dagnais. Stationed at Val Royeux around…thirty, thirty-five years ago.”

“Ah,” I said. “A _woman_.” Of course. They'll be the death of us all. Unless you're into men, in which case men will probably be the death of you. Or you could go the Isabela route, I suppose, and simply plan on being the death of everyone _else_ , but that's a lot of work.

“A _mage_ ,” he shot back. “I just wanna…you’re headed up to Kirkwall at some point, and I like I said, you got connections. Mages here don’t know anything about it, records were destroyed, that sort of thing. I’d just…like to know, that’s all.”

He stood up with a jerk and frowned down at me. “That’s all. I’m leaving. Help me if you want. Enjoy your sausage. I think Harding’s got the cooks making them out of bogfisher meat now.”

He headed for the door. I thought about letting him go. I didn’t, of course, because there’s always just a one more piece to this type of story. If I was going to help him, I needed to hear it.

“What was she like?” I asked.

He paused for a moment, his back to me.

“She was…magnificent,” he sighed, then pushed through the door and was gone.

I lay back for a few minutes, chewing on the sausage and his request. I’ve known a few magnificent women in my lifetime.

Bianca, the Inquisitor, Isabela, Aveline? I wish I could say they were more trouble than they were worth, but I’d be lying.

Maker’s breath, but Hawke was a whole heap of trouble, and I loved every second of it. She’d have been worth two lifetimes of headaches and hangovers, bruises and barfights, but things didn’t end up that way, did they? We got a bit more than a decade of struggle and then that was it. Better than nothing, that’s for sure.

Cassandra, though? Exception to the rule: that woman is definitely more trouble than she’s worth.

So in the end, even old Liam was looking for someone he'd lost a long time ago. I’d seen this before with old soldiers, guardsmen. The grizzled type. That ancient, nearly forgotten injury. The kind you don’t feel at all, most of the time. Except _sometimes (_ and really only when it rains) it aches _right there_.

I’m really looking forward to that kind of pain, instead of what I have now. I have a plan, of course. I’ll move somewhere sunny and dry. Somewhere so warm that the damp and the hurt will bake right out of my bones, and I’ll never miss anyone again, ever.

Or, you know, I'll just go back to Kirkwall. In my book, "magnificently shitty" still qualifies as magnificent. Not that "my book" currently exists in any real form other than notes, as my editor continues to remind me. I should probably get on that one of these days.


End file.
